Sirenes
by Typhoid Beaver
Summary: The form exhaled and closed his eyes slowly, the corners of his lips turning up minutely as the cigarette smoldered. ‘...You of all people should know, pharaoh...’ A sliver of mahogony; warm as ice and soft as granite. ‘I’ve always blown smoke.'
1. Where the Demon Goes

Sirenes

Hello again. This is a first-time stab at a series, since I'm trying to break away from my habit of one-shots or really short stories...

For those of you who might not know, the Sirenes were Woman-Bird hybrids ( Harpies; in some version they are half fish ) who dwelled on a rocky crag in the middle of the sea. Unwary sailors would hear their beautiful singing voices and filled with lust as they watched their mesmerising dance ( in some versions they see the crag as their homeland ). As the sailors set to moor on the island, their ships would be thrown on the rocks and wrecked; lucky were the sparse few who survived the encounter.

I don't own Yuugiou.

Read on -

_First thou shalt arrive where the enchanter Sirenes dwell, _

_they who seduce men. _

_The imprudent man who draws near them never returns, _

_for the Sirens, lying in the flower-strewn fields, _

_will charm him with sweet song; but around them _

_the bodies of their victims lie in heaps. _

_- the Warning of Circe_

_Fssssss...st._

The subway car hissed to a stop. One of the three remaining passengers, a crow-headed boy of about 26 or so, seemed in quite a haste to evacuate the steel skeleton; he was twitching nervously for six blocks, pale and sweaty from the bristling presence of his former carmates.

They were both seemed completely - almost _too_ - oblivious of the other's presence as the train ground up to speed once more. Even the jostling motion and dim clanging from beneath the car was not enough to dissolve the silence the duo held; one could have cut it with a knife. Though the two were on opposite sides of the car, they may as well have been on opposite ends of the universe for all they ackowledged the other.

One sat with crossed legs, dripping with an aura of confident mastery, a rather composed expression seeming to find a permanent berth in his features. Dark blue and black leather gleamed with windowlight all along his willowy frame, along with the sun-hued pendant that hung about his neck. Golden bangs were accompanied by a shock of ink and blood that reeded amount his face, sharp features boldened by needle-keen lavender eyes. He gazed idly at the fleeting scenery, arms folded in his lap, unconcerned.

The other passenger was an entirely different matter. Long, black denim-clad legs were stretched, one booted foot resting on the seat opposite. He was more or less laying down, almost feline features pointing heavenward. Ivorn locks fell to his back, twining about his throat and shoulders, branching out over dark, mahogony optics. He was rather panther-like, with a lean elasticity about him. Even the movements of the cigarette to his mouth were strangely fluid, wisps of smoke curling upwards until they disappeared near the car ceiling.

_Fssssss... st._

The mechanic doors heaved open. The lavender-eyed teen rose, his lithe form striding tall as he approached the steel-strewn exit. He stopped halfway through the threshold, not turning around.

"That's a terrible habit, Graverobber. You shouldn't have started." he parted with his advice given, hands pocketed as the doors closed again.

The languid form exhaled and closed his eyes slowly, the corners of his lips turning up minutely as wafts drifted lazily upward. _'...You of all people should know, pharaoh...' _a sliver of mahogony; warm as Everest and soft as grainte. '_I've always blown smoke.'_

It wasn't an obligation of any sort. Not some duty he felt, some revenge he must execute. No imposition.

The guard fell with a dying gurgle, the dagger that had seemingly sprouted from his throat receding as it was extracted. The White-Haired Devil licked the stiletto, ecstacy painting itself on his sleek features, scarlet on his lips and primordial canines. Dark brown eyes burned alight with an almost infernous vigor. The dim, blackened-gold of dying suns.

In fact, he could not even be considered a burden, because he never really thought of it as a task. It just came naturally.

Cries and commands echoed as they bounced about the voluminous stone corridors, reaching the thief's ears as he stepped carelessly over the forever-still guard. Melting into his torchlit shadow, the figure practically became a part of the wall as he flitted down the stone-paved passage.

The scarce lighting made his features awkward to decipher... his was a rough, leather-brown complexion, causing his already eye-catching mane to stand out. Lean sinew was unadequately covered by his red linen cloak, dark-scarred chest exposed, the gold-bordered hems flowing back with the wind of his motion. Upon his back he held a large beige sack, filled to the brim with valuable scrolls; ceremonies, spells, medicine, charts, records... dire information for scribes and healers, to name but two. Hands and arms swathed in gold complimented the tone of his skin; spoils from past raids, no doubt. Of course, one who would hunt for the Demon King would not probe and search the streets or dark alleys for one with such features, but one with the pronged-tail of some long-given wound, protruding from his right eye. A blind reminder.

His bare feet padded along the smooth stone floor, the only other sound the swish of the cloak on his skin. He was enthralled; this was what he lived for. The slight difficulty in breathing for his heart's being lodged in his throat, the pins-and-needles exhiliration that bathed the back of his neck... it never seemed a burden to him, the task he was given. No... it was something else.

Not unlike water that dwindles stone, eroding it slowly, little by little, he was wearing away their demeanour and self-confidence. As a tiger would worry its prey for days at a time, fraying its confidence and composure, giving it not a chance for rest or food and charging towards it should it stop, the sabeteur took a bit here - a bit there - planted the seeds of dissent around... and would wait until the sun when he would be rid of his yoke, his task.

An angry shaft flitted just past his elbow, its barbed head coming to rest in the torchholder near him. Casting a brief glance over his shoulder, the thief could vaguely make out the silhouettes of tailing guards. Another messenger of steel hissed a hairsbreadth from his ear, clattering earthward as it collided with the blunt stonewall ahead.

A cry was heard from one of the approaching guards, spears and bows alike at the ready. The ejacualtion was not without reason - the graverobber had hit a dead end, narrow window slits yards above the paved floor the only means of escape. The thief seized up the situation with an astute glance, halting at the wall near the only torch in the corridor, sack still slung calmly to over one shoulder. He had only brought a stiletto for means of protection; a thief laden with cumbersome livery is a dead one before the next sunrise.

The guards encircled him, spearpoints bristling, archers' shafts at the ready lest the thief scale the ample windows.

"Surrender, Thief Bakura!" the foremost spearman cried, supposedly the captain. "Resist and you shall know Anubis in an instant!"

The amberesque eyes stared levelly as he responded, seemingly deaf to the captain's order. "Any of you who do not wish to die should turn back now."

"Hah!" one of the archers barked. "Who are you to threaten the Royal Guard? It is over a half-dozen baldes at your throat; you have but a small knife! I pray that you may fight back, as I myself would enjoy killing you for the heinous crime committed!"

The pale-haired young man shrugged as if in defeat. "Then it shall be." He began to turn to face the dead-end wall, as if to accept his arrest in an execution manner. But this was not so.

As he began to outstretch his hands, the sack sagging only slightly from his back, the archers lowered their bows, thinking accomplishment as theirs. But as two of the confident spearmen off-stanced in order to seize the elusive thief, the ivorn-haired man grabbed the lone torch in the corridor, and flung it out of a night-darkened windowslit.

The faintest of glows coming from the stars outside, the corridor was thrown into a chaos. The unmistakable hiss of released bowstrings rang forth, the archers firing in the general direction Bakura had been. But when the deathcry came instead from the of the spearmen, they sawin horror the futility in such an act.

'_As the river comes to a mountain which it cannot scale, it flows around it, eventually under and through it.'_

The ruckus was finally heard by another nearby search party, torches held high by the apprehensive troupe as they came upon the gruesome scene. A macabre of bodies adorned the once unused and bland corridor, wet crimson giving off a dull sheen as light brushed against it. Spears seemed to be growing fom the midriffs of the spearmen, whereas jagged scarlet grins were worn on the throats of others. The Thief, scrolls and all, was not in sight.

One of the torches clattered to the stone floor. The captain at the head of the small regimend took a step back.

"We must rid ourselves of this place." he murumured in a low voice, terror-ridden eyes riveted on the grotesque scene before him. "A Demon has been here."

-

Thanks for reading. It may get slightly AU later on, since I am not completely fluent in the Egyptian backstory, but I'll do as best I can to get the overall look of it right. (sweatdrop) Thanks again!


	2. Private Dawn, Private Dusk

It rose from the sand; a rearing behemoth of goldenrod, both defiant and withstanding of relentless desert wind. So lavish and marvellously flourished it was, set in such a desolate plain... the vast abyss filled with what would eventually become the sands of time to a drifter, one could only wonder as to how it rose from the depths; from the very grains themselves. Perhaps it did.

Facing the east, as to catch the amber eye the moment it touched the moon-chilled sands, the palace would soon be cast aglow with its daily aura, its magnificence, as if it was another sun somehow left behind; its very essence.

But for now, only the emerald tinge on the hem of the sky was signate of such a forthcoming. Despite this time that so harshly demanded silence from those of flesh, two darkly clad forms stood before the great jaws of the palace entrance. The soft coo of wind through the shallow wall grooves occasionally veiled the figures' murmured exchange. Both were facing the palace entrance, its threshold gravitating attention with its elaborate accents. But this was not of what the two discussed.

There, in the center of the stone entrance hung a rag-wrapped corpse, dangling to the peak of the arch by a single spike-transfixed bandage. The long-dead form swayed, a graveyard pendulum, its facial wrappings torn to frays and wafting vaguely in a whispering breeze. It was as if the two were hypnotized by the methodical movement of the body, or perhaps by the grotesque bits of flesh that still clung to its exposed, sunken face.

The figure nearest the macabrous sight was a great deal older than the other. Crevices and burrows were visible into his leather-brown face, as if a rather sloppy artist had etched them in. Coarse white hair surrounded thin lips, giving his stern features a sage and timely air. A simple white cloak enveloped his aged frame, his head dominated by a volumious hood. None of these details, however, stood out as much as the golden orb that resided where his left eye had once been.

His companion, as alluded, was a young man, nary a flaw upon his prematurely solemn features. A finely-sculpted bone structure was all but hidden beneath a formal priest headdress, the brim casting shade over hawk-blue optics. Next to the plainly clad old man he cut a very impressive figure, to say in the least; his shoulders seemed to taper upwards with large, golden mounts, similarly-composed bands adorning his slender arms, chest, and lithe waist. Dark blue cloth covered his torso and waist, the golfen-bordered garb gravitating about a golden ankh on the priest's chest. This ambient presence, coupled with the gold rod, gave the impression of a lightning bolt-bearing Zeus; a god who walked among men,

The old man's voice was slightly choked by age, not facing the man as he spoke. "We must await the monks to cleanse the area before anyone goes near."

They lapsed into a silence, the young man seeming to listen to something far away. "Who has defiled Akunumkanon in this... despicable manner?" he asked quietly, though he knew the answer. He merely wanted a full account from the other man, who seemd to have an ear to the ground with all happenings in the kingdom.

Akunadin's reamainging almond eye briefly brushed the corpse again, closing momentarily in a hollow resignation. "His Pharaoh's sarcophogus was disturbed when his tomb was trespassed upon... no longer than five hours ago." he had known the younger man's subtle request disguised as an inquery, obliging as always; the priest had only been summoned from his chambers no more than an hour prior to their rendezvous.

"The scribes' chamber was intruded upon as well. Many recordings and the like were stolen..." he felt his companion's presence tense slightly. "...that was when Akunumkanon was disvcovered. The sentry was hysterical for several minutes, supposedly from the presence of the Dead... but..."

The deititious man waited patiently for the report's conclusion. He finally prodded for it. "But?"

The man still held a seasoned gaze on his capering brother, once the most powerful being in Egypt, now a ridiculed ragdoll, conforming to the sand-speckled winds.

"It was because he saw him, Seto, murdering his fellow guard as he watched from a hidden berth. Bakura."

For a moment the two lapsed into silence, only the wind droning as it pulled at their clothing like an attention-hungry child. "What is it you wish to do, Priest Seto?" Akunadin waited for a response from the young man behind him; he received none. "Priest...?" he turned to his superior.

The horizon had rapidly begun to shed the dark fur of a nightsky, a fire flaring rapidly behind the lithe young man. As if the heavens themselves were enveloped in the beginnings of a blazing inferno, the fierce eye mounted the reaches of sight and illuminated the priest. Liquid gold swallowed his frame, glinting from his adorned body and giving him an aura of a god himself. The object he palmed, gold itself with the mark of Horus seemed aflame as he spoke.

"My only wish..." The impending brilliance and intenisty of the liquid fire that drenched , no, _engulfed_ his lean body seemed to leave his eyes untouched. Like the sky - both in color and depth. "...is to serve to the pharaoh to His every whim."

The sun fully mounted into the cerulean depths. The body of Akunumkanon became motionless.

o-o-o-

The suffocating heat was denied passage to the young man, cool water having enveloped his lean body. Again a wooden pail was filled and again he poured it over himself, eyes half-masted and head reclined slightly. The red linen cloak was absent of the thief, leaving the water to trace the hollows in his skin, memoirs of blades that had sunk their mark. Darkened vines twined about him, snakes that seemed to writhe when he moved; ones that seemed to hiss when looked upon.

Only his frayed pants remained, the offwhite linen wavering slightly as a merciful desert wind blew by the figure. Running the unoccupied hand through his ivorn mane, he let the water seep past it and bless the back of his neck. The knifeslits of mahogony grew slightly, more amberesque pouring forth as if lifeblood from some deepening wound. Lips turned up slightly, revealing the tips of premordial jags as the figure's gaze bore up into the fatal sun.

"You haven't me yet." he muttered, replacing the pail on the sandstoned well.

The black stallion lifted his head from his own pail of water, reguarding the approaching thief with polite curiousity. He gave a half-classed grin as thre wind snapped the buck's ebony locks, the steed's gentle brown eyes adapted to the sand-spat breeze. He had even taken a palace horse.

Slipping his cloak back over his still slick chest, the Bandit King stepped astride his mount, tightening the reins looped about the well's wooden railing. He unfastened the pack of spoils from the beast's back, slinging it over his shoulder before turning back to the corpse of a village.

The skeletal remains of huts, meager scraps of the civilization, denied that they had ever housed flesh with their now bare frames. Wind and sand, rain and storm had eaten away the memory of life that had once flickered. The gathering of small dwellings that had once given forth the joys and losses of mortal existence, those that had bourne witness to the slaughter of a weak militia, those that had been flecked with the scarlet life of slain children, that had echoed with the piercing grief of a widow, were now simply fossils of what had once been.

The thief drew a deep breath, letting his breathing fend off the overwhelming sound of unjust death. He was home; Kuru Elna.

Like thorns, the spirits seemed to press against him, whispers melting with the breeze and forcing themselves into this mind. He closed them off; this was the only time it felt unsavory to his interests, this task that was chained to him.

A slow ache of reminder strove fruitlessly to crawl into his chest, his hiding place of oh-so many years ago reaching his sights. It was there he had stowed away, the deathcries of his playmates and neighbors fresh unto his ears, engraining themselves into his mind with white-hot reality. He could scarcely distinguish his heartbeats as bellowing calvary unhesistatingly crushed children beneath coalish hooves, the beautiful brown sands inked a vivid crimson...

It was here the slow ache of reminder revolted against his control, forcing itself unbidden to his mind. He heard himself gasp before -

"_Bakura? Bakura!" his mother's voice rang out for him. His eyes widened as he saw the young woman running towards him, having to avoid the bodies carpeting everthing. He felt a pang of relief and joy at seeing his mother through the haze of blood and carnage. So badly he wanted to leap from his niche in the wall and run towards her as well, but he was so horrified... he was helpless in the wave of terror that threw him like a leaf in the gale._

"_Bakura!" she called again, her voice cracking with emotion, dark hair streaming behind her. Her eyes suddenly dimmed, and everything slowed down._

_At first he didn't even know why she had stopped. Around her the chaotic scene had lulled slightly, but the harvest was not yet over. He felt a moan crawl form his throat as he saw the spears that had claimed the woman's chest erupt from the flesh, scarlet rain in their wake._

Growling, he shook his head sharply, causing his pale hair to ripple slightly. Doing his level best to ignore the area, he trudged onward to a small, covered pit in the center of the village. A sheet of iron was laid over the small concavity, but this was kicked aside as the thief dropped the sack from his shoulder. As if alive, the embers within the pit began to glow as the wind brushed them. His own private dusk.

Soon the embers grew into a pillar of golden-red, dancing and flickering for the attention of any. The now empty sack was limp with a lack of contents, the scrolls it once held having been fed to the beautiful fiery plumage.

Eyes veiled, head reclined heavenward, Bakura felt the lingering presence of death cringe away from the fire. Here was life, the exuberance that defied stillness, and the opposition could not bear its presence. Forced back, the spirits quietened.

How funny. Though the fire blazed then, so full of energy and existence, moments ago was it not merely a trace of what it was now? And upon devouring itself, soon would it not return to the same state? Of course, it could not rear itself lest there was a driving force that spurred it into life, that stoked it into brilliant existence. Why, then, did it seem so invincible? Was merely that which seemed immortal really hollow and weak, and the powerless not nearly as feeble as presumed?

The dying flames summoned the thief form his musings, tamed by the lack of itself to it former embers. The pit was quickly reconcealed.

o-o-o-


	3. Cur Among Sheep

Cedar. The smell of it, bitter and solid. It cleared her mind, slowed the mild murmur of her pulse, defied her nature. Reined her.

She didn't flinch like before, the first time the silver fur slid down her near-bare back. Nor did she panic as her wrists and ankles were bound, lightly yet firmly, by the blue snakes of cloth. She had grown accustomed, just as she had to the bitter smell. She innately - instinctively knew what these meant to be.

Her pulse quickened again as the wooden coyote mask consumed her, ebony blades taken into her hands.

o-o-o-

The first thing anyone noticed about the girl was the way she felt.

Not the feel of her skin, smooth and so unearthly light, maddening to the imagination. Not the feel of her ethereal mane, pale and almost liquid to the touch. Doubtless not the feel of her barely blue gaze. That was for the ground alone.

No... what one felt about her was always her presence. It was not powerful, not confident, nor cowardly or vain. It was a sort of turbulent self-disgust, a sort of disruption in the normal current that stood out from the rest, a coal among diamonds. A cur among sheep.

They called her The Silent One, and so she was. Never speaking unless told, never praising, never protesting. Of course, they all assumed she could never contribute to the Court with song. Assumed.

Assumed.

o-o-o-

The throbbing of the Drums That Tear Out The Heart bade him to open his eyes again. Knifeslits of razor blue, vaguely annoyed with the disturbance. The musty yet pleasant scent of incense was light in the Court, the nearly invisible smoke wafting from the adjacent braziers. A tense hush fell over those gathered, anticipation rivaling the thickness of the incense.

The Priest Seto did not like it in the Pharaoh's Throne. He preferred more subtle ways, operating through others. He felt too open, too exposed, too vulnerable to all those who cared to look towards him, down at him, adoringly at him.

Reguardless of his caution, the High Priest had little choice in the matter. Pharaoh Atem was holding a private counsel with his High Order, and decided to hold a gala, with Seto throned in his stead. A nice little smooth-over for that morning's fiasco; he could still see Akunumkhanon's sway.

He had meant what he had said earlier, and so for his pharaoh he would endure this grinding predicament, and for his pharaoh he would sit idly on the throne, restraining the urge to retreat to his would-be seating, among the High Council. He hissed lightly through clenched teeth, wishing it would simply end so he could return to his quarters. He would be there then, had it not been for the gala.

'_Damn thief.'_ flitted through his mind as a sweet and provocative note perked from a solo flute. He sighed, deeply in resignition, as the performance began.

o-o-o-

The blue smoke made her gag slightly, but she held her position as it quickly began to dissipate. Crouching upon one knee, head bowed, still-full hands upon the stone-flagged stage; this was how all saw her as the entrance fumes cleared. The flute's note wavered.

The canine mask, devoid of a lower jaw, amply veiled her feature from any view. A cape of silver fur shimmered at the slightest movement, the tapering twin daggers gleaming seductively in the firelight. The flute faded into void, and for a moment the entire Court was silent in anticipation, intrigued into asphyxiation. And then it began.

The soft patter of her bare feet against the smooth stone was lost amid the bellowing thrum of drums and the wailing flute. The sky cloth about her wrists and ankles traced her fluid movements, forming a path of her body as it twisted, whirled, leapt.

A sharp whistling was heard by few as the obsidian blades groped at the air, flickering as the dancer moved. The drums and flute were now accompanied by several pipes, the shrill cries rending those present deaf to their own thoughts, immersed only in the song and dance.

The glacial priest had alone remained raitonal of thought, thoguth they were no longer of his deisre to be rid of the performance. His mind mused to itself curiously as he watched the dancer, but didn't see her. Something else...

His throat tightened, as if a noose had been suddenly drawn.

He felt it.

The song reached its climax as the the drums rumbled fiercely, the flute gave a primal cry, and the pipes peaked with feral intensity. The dancer, whose movements had been becoming gradually deeper and more powerful, poised herself for the final maneuver bowed her head... too deeply.

And then the smell of cedar was gone.

For a moment, she was confused. Instead of the solid scent, the wispy incense overcame her. The feel of cool air met her back instead of fur, the material slightly warmed by her body. The scent was gone. The cedar was gone.The mask was gone. Her heart began to quicken. Mind became unclear.

She felt a clatter near her feet. Heard it. The drums, the flute, the pipes had suddenly died.

A silence fell over the Court. Not silent with anticipation, not intrigued or entranced.

"_Stupid wench!"_ cried the Zati, Talent Master, the squat man waddling furiously over to the dancer, who was still poised upon one knee, frozen in shock. "Stupid, useless wench! How dare you! I'll have your legs broken for shaming the Blade Dance - "

He backhanded her, but she was still too shocked too react much. The incense seeming to be fogging her senses into a kind of stupor... what was going on? What _happened?_

"It's an ill omen for one to lose their mask during a ceremony..." a noble hissed to his neighbor.

The other noble sneered. "_She_ is the ill omen. I knew it all along... so pale, it simply is not natural - "

" - should have gotten rid of her sooner - "

" - deserves it anyway, would have been a common slave if not for Master Zati's good will - "

"Silence."

All ceased speech or movement, turning their eyes to the High Priest.

He didn't particularly care at this point - let them stare, let them gawk like the mindless imbeciles they were. He didn't mind. He didn't even mind the unintentional offense he had been given by the lost mask, lying forgotten on the stage. He just wished he knew why he rose, why he had ceased the procession of exterminating the now inauspicious dancer, and _why in Ra's name she felt like that._


End file.
